


He Shall Have You

by tsukibeam



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Imaginary Friends, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 13:57:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12367194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukibeam/pseuds/tsukibeam
Summary: The thing about imaginary friends is that they’re just that, imaginary. They’re supposed to fade over time. They’re not supposed to appear in your dreams.Falling in love with them isn’t supposed to happen.Neither is rescuing them from an evil empire, and bringing them back to live in your magic kingdom.Because they’re not supposed to be real.





	He Shall Have You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zinthos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinthos/gifts).



> Written for the prompt: 
> 
> Noctis has an imaginary friend. Except he's not really imaginary; it's just that he can't see him anywhere but in his dream world.
> 
> \--Niflheim Prince Prompto  
> \---no one knows of Prompto's existence  
> \----Niflheim and Lucis are not at war nor are they at peace  
> \-----one day Prompto or Noctis doesn't return to the dreamworld and said dreamworld grows dark, night never ending.

Noctis doesn’t remember the attack. He doesn’t remember the crash of the car, or the glass shattering and raining down on him. He doesn’t remember how his body jolted from the leather seat, the pain that pierced his back, or the blood that shone in pools and splatters along the wreckage.

What he remembers is this: the dark of the night, illuminated only by the passing street lights, golden and warm. He remembers his governess and the cheap paperback she closed with a sigh whenever Noctis said something. He remembers thinking she’s annoyed by me, and then quieting down...only to perk up again when he thinks he finally has something that she’ll like.

He remembers that process, of wringing his small hands, hoping that she’d just talk to him. He remembers that one second he craved her attention and the next there was nothing and then-- a boy.

A boy with blonde hair that shines, somehow brighter than the amber crystals floating in the lush forest in which they stand. And his eyes, bright as the jewels in Noctis’s mother’s old necklaces. Not that Noctis can get a good look at them though.

The boy is shy, fidgeting, and wringing the hem of his shirt as he stares at the grass, takes several deep breaths, and says, “did you find the fireworks yet? They’re fun to shoot off.”

Noctis, who stands a careful few feet back, smiles and says, “show me.”

* * *

 

So many things come as a result of the accident but Noctis, who has grown up in the Citadel and never knew a world without guards, won’t notice the heightened security. His heart would sputter at the hushed whispers of war with Niflheim, but well, war never comes, only sanctions that an eight year old prince has no need to worry himself with.

It doesn’t matter that he’s bedridden and can’t walk; it doesn’t even matter that he wakes up in a cold and gray hospital room. Although it is nice that his father is there, worried brow and all. Still, the first thing out of Noctis’s mouth is, “I met a boy. His name is Prompto.”

His father, carefully taking his son’s hands in his own and in an equally careful voice says, “you were dreaming, Noctis.”

The unspoken words are this: You’re awake, Noctis. Prompto isn’t real.

Noctis, who intellectually knows this, still shakes his head and insists, “I met him. In my dream. Him and Carbuncle. They helped me find my safe place.”

Regis smiles, indulgent, and picks up the glass figurine from Noctis’s bedside table and places it in Noctis’s hands, still flecked with cuts and bruises. “Carbuncle is a friend, Noctis. I am glad he kept you company.”

Noctis’s hands curl around the figurine, Carbuncle, and smiles for just a second before frowning. “Dad. Prompto needs a friend, too.”

Noctis squirms under the stare his father gives him, not quite father, not quite king, before he sighs and offers a small smile. “And so he shall have you.”

* * *

The hospital is boring, plain and simple. The Citadel, austere and frankly no place for a child, at least offers more entertainment for a growing prince. Amidst the sterile white closed off world of the hospital, Noctis misses the freedom of roaming the Citadel, the paintings, the people, the familiarity.

His guards try; they bring his games, set up his consoles, but there’s a tightness in their eyes as they step away and leave Noctis to it. Sometimes Ignis and Gladio visit, and they have mini tournaments with Noctis, leaving him beaming when they return to their duties. More often than not though, they’re busy, and the guards are too busy themselves.

It’s for his own safety, they explain in patient tones as their eyes dart to the curtain drawn windows and open doorways. No distractions, they say, and they sigh as they go back to their stations. And, well, Noctis sighs too because he knows; the governess is gone, the two Crownsguard who would swing Noctis between them are gone, and a few more share rooms down the hall as they also recover.

But when they leave, it’s quiet. His bed is too large, the room bigger. It’s too sparsely furnished and there is nothing, other than the TV in the corner, that belongs to him. Monitors beep beside him. It’s cold, the late afternoon sun flooding through the windows holding no warmth.

Noctis blinks at the controller nestled beside him in the white blankets and frowns. Playing alone in this too large and white room feels...sad. Worse than trying to talk to his governess. Everyone has their duties and Noctis...he curls further down in the blankets and buries his face in the pillows, away from the doorway, closes his eyes. He does his best not to cry.

It doesn’t take long for Noctis to doze off, lulled to sleep by the stillness around him. When he does cross the threshhold into dream land, Prompto is there.

Warmth, the kind missing in the hospital and away from his dad, fills Noctis at the sight of the blonde, and the two smile.

* * *

 

Prompto has figured out something with the fireworks, to have more fun, he says.

“Are you sure it’s safe,” Noctis says as he watches him. They’re in a clearing by a stream and Noctis is hopping from rock to rock, arms circling in an effort not to fall in the water because watching Prompto is more interesting, but also distracting.

Prompto’s small hands confidently pry open the little firework balls and the paper within but he pauses at Noctis’s question, tilts his head sideways and thinks for just a second. Noctis is already backing away, to a rock that will lead him to the other side of the stream, but he finally answers, “maybe.”

There’s definitely a question in that word and Noctis’s phone beeps. “Carbuncle says it’s not...maybe you should come over here when you light it.”

“My ballistics tutor said it’s possible to make big explosions by combining powder from smaller explosives,” Prompto says instead, adding more of said powder to the piece of paper he had scrounged up. “These are still _pretty_ small though. It can’t be that bad.”

Noctis squats on the other side of the stream, careful not to get his shoes wet, but still letting his hands play with the cool water. “Why don’t you just use magic?”

“Father said magic won’t be around forever.” Prompto ties off the paper and starts on the fuse. His tongue pokes out as he works and his blonde hair falls into his eyes but he swipes it to the side. “Technology is more reliable.”

Noctis frowns. “My dad said technology can make us forget how to do things ourselves.”

The two boys share a look before they each shrug a shoulder, the answer to their contrary beliefs out of their grasp.

“So, can you shoot guns and stuff,” Noctis asks instead. No one had ever let him try it out for himself yet. Prompto, someone his own age, being able to do it, is far more interesting than fireworks and magic.

Prompto nods and the movement jostles his glasses, which he fixes without a thought. “My tutor said I’m the best he’s seen.”

Noctis breathes out a sound of amazement as he imagines Prompto aiming and firing a gun, and then a second later Prompto claps his hands.

“Finished!” He fishes out a match, lights the fuse, and then scrambles over to where Noctis is sitting, barely clearing the stream and Noctis’s head with his flailing limbs when the fuse runs out.

The explosion rings out through the clearing, scattering rock and bits of grass and splashes of water over the two boys. Noctis covers his head as everything rains down on him but Prompto sports the biggest smile.

“That was so cool,” he’s already pushing himself up, to the small crater his work created. “Let’s find more and make a bigger one!”

But Noctis is staring at the crater, and his hands shake just a little as another explosion, bigger and brighter and just _more_ surfaces in his memory.

Something brushes his leg just as his cell phone beeps again, and he looks down at Carbuncle, the softness in the magic creature’s eyes. _It’s okay, Noct_ , his message reads, _you’re safe now_.

“Maybe,” Noctis says, quiet enough that Prompto pauses in his little victory dance, “maybe I can show you some sword stuff.”

Prompto’s responding enthusiasm is enough to bring the smile back to Noctis’s face and less than a second later, the fireworks are abandoned and the two are searching along the woods for a suitable stick for Prompto.

* * *

It shouldn’t be a thing, Noctis knows this. He shouldn’t be able to fall asleep and wake up in a dream world where he can stand and walk. Dreams aren’t that vivid, they aren’t supposed to hurt and you aren’t supposed to remember them that well.

But, Noctis figures, his dad has a magical crystal that lets them summon swords from nothing. Maybe it’s his dad’s blessing that brings him and Prompto into that dream again and again, or maybe it’s some lingering magic from Carbuncle. Noctis doesn’t know but it can’t be anything bad, not when he doesn’t feel heavy or alone anymore.

Noctis tells his father of his dream when he visits that night. When more dreams happen, spread between the weeks and months of Noctis’s recovery, he tell him of those as well.

Regis is bemused as Noctis tells him of Prompto’s attempts with a sword, or how they find Noctis’s room in the dream Citadel. Noctis tells anyone who will listen how Prompto’s favorite video games are the role playing ones because he gets to feel like a hero. He tells them all of Prompto’s favorites: the huge paintings in the Citadel gallery; the kitchens, always stocked with pastries; the old Quicksilver guns in the armory.

It’s not long before the entire Citadel knows about Noctis’s new friend, and the prince doesn’t miss the raised brows or the glances the guards give each other. He notices how they watch him more, how they ask if Prompto is in the room with them and he gets frustrated, sometimes, when he has to explain that Prompto only shows up in his dreams.

The guards smile, say of course, and change the topic, ask about his therapy or the new comic he’s reading. It’s enough for Noctis though. They don’t have to outright say it, he knows what they’re dancing around: Noctis has an imaginary friend.

The idea, that they don’t actually believe him, that Prompto might not be real, bothers Noctis maybe more than his times of solitude.

* * *

 

“Where do you live?”

It’s a year after their first dream, and two game controllers sit in their laps as they huddle on the couch in Noctis’s room. The sun is getting low in the sky, signaling the near end of Noctis’s dream. It’s a time zone thing, they’ve figured out. Prompto never shows up during Noctis’s night, only when he’s napping.

Prompto bites his lip, worrying the pink skin in a way that’s new for Noctis. They’ve never held back, though they’ve also never spoken about everything. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”

That makes Noctis pause the game, his character frozen mid jump over a canyon. “Why not?”

Prompto won’t meet his eyes and he plays with the controller cord. “No one knows about me. They want to make me stronger first.”

It’s the way that Prompto says it, his voice a near whisper and the tremble that comes with it. It sends a shiver down Noctis’s spine and he leans closer to Prompto. “Who?”

But Prompto shakes his head, his mouth a tight line against the secrets that are desperate to spill out. Noctis wishes he would say it but whatever it is must be terrible. “What happens when you wake up?”

Prompto blanches, all the color leaching from his face, even his freckles, and he shakes his head again. “I don’t live in a good place.”

He looks so frightened by the mere thought of waking up that Noctis reaches over and takes his hand. Prompto tenses for a moment, surprise overriding everything and he flicks his eyes up at Noctis, who offers his own sad smile.

“I wish we could stay here forever.” He’d miss his dad, and everyone else in the Citadel like Gladio and Ignis, but what did that matter when it was the only thing he could think to help his friend?

“Me too,” Prompto whispered, relaxing a little. He still doesn’t have his usual cheer and his smile is probably far from being natural, but still he laughs when Noctis unpauses the game and his character falls right into the canyon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Noctis is eleven the first time he finds the dream world dark, the sun set when in his time it’s still day. He finds Prompto curled on his couch, arms wrapped around him. He stares out of the window, out at the twinkling dream Insomnia, only his eyes aren’t bright violet, but a burnt red that almost seems to glow in the darkened room.

“I don’t live in a good place,” Prompto repeats his words from two years ago, pulling his arms tighter around himself. His voice is hoarse.

Noctis takes a few steps closer. “Where is it?”

All the other times Noctis tried this question were deflected, ignored in favor for what Noctis has figured out is a decidedly more fun topic. He’s given up on trying to get an answer but this is...his eyes follow where Prompto stares out the window and frowns, shivers because he knows it’s bad.

Maybe he shouldn’t want an answer but not knowing is somehow worse. A faceless evil rather than something that maybe his father can take on.

“Gralea,” Prompto says at last.

That should matter, the way he says it. Noctis’s history lessons, all of Ignis’s tutoring, comes to mind, detailing all of the wars and battles fought with or started by Niflheim. He thinks about the cease fire his grandfather managed, years before he was born. He thinks of the wall that shimmers around most of Lucis, strongest around Insomnia.

There hasn’t been a battle in years but no one trusts Niflheim. He’s overheard things said by the Citadel guards, cursing the Empire. Gladio and his other instructors still push him to master each weapon.

It should matter, all of it, because he knows that things could be so different without the Empire. The Glaives would still have a home. Luna would still have a mom. He looks back at Prompto, who looks so small and fragile on the couch.

It should matter but it doesn’t.

Prompto is cold, too, when Noctis closes the distance and climbs onto the couch with him. Prompto freely gives him his hand, both of them, and Noctis holds them, leaning into Prompto. “I’ll talk to my dad. He can help you.”

The laugh that poured out of Prompto, bitter and disbelieving, fractures a corner of Noctis’s heart. “You’re a prince right? That’s why you live here. I’m a prince too. My dad doesn’t help me.”

Noctis shifts, reigning in his shock from this revelation. He watches Prompto; the glowing red from his eyes are fading, the violet returning. “I can try,” he says.

His chest feels tight as he holds Prompto. It never hurts, only pulls and flutters each time he thinks about coming back to this dream world and to Prompto. But it aches now and Noctis frowns, his throat tightening as he wonders just _how_  to get help.

* * *

 

“You can’t help someone who doesn’t exist,” Gladio tries not to laugh during a training session.

It’s a punch to the gut, almost as painful as Gladio’s _actual_ punches. Because, Gladio is quick to point out, imaginary friend or not, there’s no prince of Niflheim.

“Never has been,” Gladio says, hefting his broadsword onto his shoulder, so matter of fact. His eyes knit in concern as he watches Noctis shift on his feet, obvious frustration blanketing his features.

 _Obviously_ he knows there’s no Niflheim prince. It’s one of the things he often hears whispered in the Citadel, rumors about why the Emperor doesn’t have an heir, and who would succeed him when the inevitable occurs. He’s heard Gladio say, plenty of times, how convenient it’d be for Niflheim to descend in a civil war, too distracted to cause a global war.

“He’s real,” Noctis can only insist, that familiar ache back in his chest, his breathing hitching in his lungs.

He can’t explain any of it. He’s known for years now that Prompto shouldn’t be appearing in his dreams but he _is_ and he’s in _trouble_. He’s racking his brain for some kind of proof but of course there is none and Gladio laughs again. Tells him to stop avoiding training and pick up his sword already.

Ignis isn’t much better, not that Noctis expected him to be after Gladio’s response.

“The council will not fracture the world’s tentative peace for a non existent person,” Ignis tries to be more sensible, stressing the last world in the same way that Gladio was blunt. “Especially a _dream_.”

Noctis thinks that maybe he should be offended, on Prompto’s behalf, by the quiet stress of the last word but he just shakes his head. “It’s weird, I know.” Ignis bears down on him from the top of his glasses at the understatement. “But you’re my advisor. Can’t you, like, at least look into it?”

The _look_ Ignis gives him is far more weighty than any thirteen year old should be allowed to wield. It’s on par with his father’s, enough to leave Noctis ducking his head slightly, retreating into his room’s couch cushions.

Ignis continues to stare at him, probably going through all the thousands of ways he can turn down Noctis, from most practical to most diplomatic. Noctis only reaches out a hand and traces a finger along the dark fabric of the couch.

“Prompto sits here in the dream world,” he says. “What if he’s not there one day, Iggy? What if something happens and we could have stopped it?”

Ignis’s eyes flicker only briefly to the spot Noctis pokes at. He probably looks pathetic (Iris would call him _cute_ ) but he doesn’t care. He’s half tempted to jump off the couch and run straight into his father’s council chamber when Ignis sighs.

Noctis immediately perks up because _that_ sigh is usually one of reluctant defeat. “I suppose there is no harm in making inquires.”

He flings himself onto Ignis’s side and envelops the other in as tight of a squeeze as he can manage. The relief he feels, flooding and triumphant, turns to trepidation a few days later when he’s summoned by his father for a dinner.

Ignis tells him it’s in the casual dining room and therefore there’s nothing to worry about. Still, the table, mahogany and capable of seating eight, feels like a whole other continent. Noctis pushes his vegetables around his plate, sneaking quick glances at his father as he does. It’s the same old routine: grimace at the sight of the offending food, avoid eating it, and waiting for his father to get through their small talk.

The king at least has the grace to wait until mid-way through dessert to speak up, but when he does, Noctis almost drops the silver fork onto the crisp white tablecloth.

“How is Prompto?”

Noctis’s gaping mouth, full of chocolate cake, is probably an extremely undignified sight for King Regis to behold, yet his lips still pull into a gentle smile.

“I don’t pretend to know how the _all_ of the Astral’s magic works,” Regis says, “but I did charge Carbuncle to watch over you.”

“You believe me?” The words hardly have weight to them with how breathless his disbelief is, but Noctis’s eyes are wide with hope, and he plunges forward into his pleas. “Dad, he’s in trouble. The Empire is...they’re doing something. They’re hurting him.”

King Regis holds up a hand, silencing his son. His eyes are kind, though, a comfort to Noctis despite the ache pulling at his heart again.

“Lucis cannot deploy her army without the Council’s approval,” Regis says carefully enough that Noctis leans eagerly forward in his seat. “But the Kingsglaive are my personal guard and they follow my orders only. Perhaps it’s time we took a closer look at the mysterious Imperial Court.”

This time Noctis’s fork does clatter to the table, smearing the clean white surface with marks of the rich cake. The ache, the tugging at his heart, it leaps and pulls the breath from Noctis’s lungs as he processes his father’s words, the implications.

Noctis forms a breathless smile, his eyes alight with hope and the excitement of telling Prompto later. He beams at his father, who immediately returns it but, as Noctis goes back to his dessert with renewed energy, the king’s eyes tighten. Well trained in his emotions as he is, Regis can’t quite hold back the troubled shadow that flickers over his features.

* * *

 

“They won’t find much,” Prompto says when Noctis tells him the news. “They’re good at hiding things. No one knows about me, remember?”

He sounds so dejected, not all hopeful like Noctis pushes himself to be. He tells Prompto it’s okay. He doesn’t know his father, after all, what he’s capable of but one day he will. His father, the Kingsglaive, will rescue him.

“We’ll see,” Prompto merely says but scoots closer to Noctis away, prince pressed against prince, and unpauses their game.

There it is again: that ache and flutter as Prompto’s warmth seeps into him. Noctis might wake from this dream soon but for now he’s content to just sit with Prompto, just the two of them.

* * *

 

The ache never leaves Noctis. If anything, it only grows, just as the two of them do in their respective worlds. He’s not sure what changes or when, only that he continues to see Prompto’s smile even when he’s awake, see his violet eyes in almost any shade of blue or violet. Gold has become Prompto’s color for Noctis, for the shine in his hair.

Noctis can’t explain it. It’s not like they even do much. Most times they just binge games, before Noctis or Prompto wake. Prompto complains about his tutors and Noctis about his school. Both feel joined in their shared hatred for history.

“Everyone’s name is Lucis or Caelum,” Noctis groans one day. “I can’t keep track of them all.”

“You wouldn’t _believe_ how many emperors were assassinated by their supposed best friend or advisor,” Prompto grouses, eyeing Noctis, his seriousness belied by the smile creeping at his lips. “Dude, don’t assassinate me.”

Noctis’s entire body tingles with the implication that Prompto considers him his best friend and he nudges Prompto, falling into him and settling at his side in the way they always end up. “Sure, but can’t make any promises for this game.”

There are times, in the coming years, where Noctis can’t concentrate on whatever they’re doing, too distracted by the planes and angles of Prompto’s face. He’s fascinated by the myriad of emotions that play across his face.

It’s easy to think it’s all because Noctis doesn’t know another prince. He writes to Luna, sure, but she’s a few years older and her role as oracle doesn’t exactly leave her with a lot of time to play video games. So, really, Prompto is a prince, but he’s also a prince with shared interests.

Noctis, during and after a dream, thought he was floating, almost like he was still in a dream even hours after he woke. But there were times when all of it was quelled by the darkness that creeps into the dream worth, when Prompto’s eyes glowed crimson and he found himself failing to speak.

Noctis tries not to notice how the darkness in the dream world took longer to fade, how Prompto’s eyes sometimes still lingered with crimson each time he woke. He tries to tell himself that his father is being careful throughout the years when he says there’s no new information about the Empire.

* * *

 

Their voices are the first he hears when Noctis wakes, slumped against a tree in the courtyard of the Citadel’s training center, though it’s their boots that truly pull him from the dream world. Noctis stirs, shifts against the rough bark pressing at his back, but keeps his eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of the sun at his cheeks.

Maybe, if he doesn’t move, he can stay in the dream world with Prompto just a few moments longer…

“Napping. While the others are out risking their lives,” the man, whose voice is just hushed enough that Noctis can't recognize it, scoffs.

The hairs on Noctis’s arms raise and his breath hitches in his throat. He doesn’t move.

“Not even at war,” another voice says, gruffer than the first, “and we’re doing the King’s dirty work in Niflheim. Should be taking back the territories instead.”

“Wonder if we’ll still have to chase imaginary friends when _he_ becomes king.”

“I’d rather resign than serve someone so entitled...”

Their boots retreat down the colonnade, toward the training room entrance, and their voices fade with each step. Noctis waits, his blood roaring in his ears, until he hears the beeping of their key cards against the door lock and then he opens his eyes.

Imaginary friend.

The courtyard is silent again. Still. Not even a breeze playing at the grass or his hair. It hits him though, as sudden as a full force wind, just how alone he is here. Bright as the afternoon sun is, all Noctis can see is the flashing golden light of long ago streetlights. His fumbling attempts at conversation with a bored governess.

He’s happy in the dream world, where there’s someone like him.

What _will_ he do when he becomes king?

His first thought is that he could find Prompto.

His second is that Lucis wouldn’t like a napping king. They already didn’t like a napping Prince.

Imaginary friend.

Noctis’s entire being recoiled at the thought of Prompto being imaginary. _Those_ faded. Prompto hadn’t.

The thought isn’t comforting, though. Not with the creeping thought that one day...he might.

* * *

 

“Hey, birthday boy.”

Noctis looks up from their game in time to see Prompto holding up his phone, the camera in selfie mode and pointing straight at them.

“Say cheese,” Prompto says as he leans back, crashing against Noctis’s side. Noctis probably looks bemused compared to Prompto’s beaming but he seems to be pleased with the resulting picture anyway. “How’s it feel to be eighteen?”

Noctis frowns. “Dad wants me to join a few council meetings. Increase my weapons training.” He sighs. “I might get busy.”

Noctis bites his lip, letting the implication hang over them. He doesn’t want to outright say it, but it’s something he always worried about, that there won't be time for Prompto when he gets older. What if now is it?

He stares at Prompto, the understanding that flashes through his eyes, before his own drop a few inches. His breath catches.

It’s...well, it’s confusing. Imaginary friends. They aren’t supposed to be real but Noctis never had any doubt that Prompto is. And being away from him, after ten long years just…it’s the worst ache of all, one that has Noctis swallowing a lump in his throat.

Ten years they’ve been appearing for each other and it’s like he finally gets it. Or maybe not, but it doesn’t seem a bad thing as his watches Prompto’s lips pull into a frown and his cheeks tint pink.

“Hey Prompto?”

“Yeah?”

Noctis swallows again, any words he might have stuck in his throat. He reaches out with a tentative hand, fingers trembling as he brushes them against the soft skin of Prompto’s cheek, over the freckles scattered on them, a trail leading down and down to his lips.

He’s not sure who leans in first, or who meets the other first. All he knows is that one second, Prompto is on his side of the couch and the next, their lips are pressed against each other, gently, a sigh of kiss. And Prompto is warm beneath his hands and their game is abandoned for what Noctis concludes is the best birthday yet.

* * *

 

“What’s your dad like?”

It’s a month or so after Noctis’s birthday and the two are on the couch again, some movie playing in the background that they’ve long since stopped paying attention to. Prompto is slumped against Noctis’s side again and Noctis is playing with his hands, running his fingers in lines from palm to wrist and then wrist to elbow. Prompto twitches from the touch and Noctis’s lips quirk into a smile for a moment before considering the question.

“He’s a good man,” Noctis says, “I always feel safe when I’m with him.”

It’s one of _dozens_ of conversations they probably should have had years ago but now that they were...whatever _this_ was, it seemed as good a time as any to get into it.

“What about yours?”

Prompto’s hand immediately goes limp and all the light that was in his eyes is smothered as his thoughts take him somewhere dark. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

Noctis feels Prompto pull from him and instinctively follows him, hand on his shoulder now, a comforting grip. “Hey, what? Why did you bring up _dads_ then?”

Noctis _knows_ that Niflheim isn’t exactly rainbows and sunshine. Every person he’s met from the Empire, be they diplomat or accompanying guard, have been frozen blocks of ice. But somehow, Prompto’s different, so surely...

He feels a coolness seep into his blood, rushed by a few solid beats of his heart. Prompto is rigid and he remembers what he said so many years ago: _my dad doesn’t help me_.

“Prompto,” he starts, sorting through an avalanche of things running through his mind, searching for the missing pieces that Prompto hasn’t given him. “What’s your dad like?”

It’s always so off putting whenever Prompto is like this which, Noctis realizes with a jolt, is often, now. The cold steel that drops down in his eyes is impenetrable. The thin line Prompto’s mouth presses in is so out of place. Noctis moves closer, repositions so he’s almost directly in front of him.

“What’s he doing?”

Just another conversation, more important than any of the others, that should have been had. Years ago. Often. Whenever the skies in this dream world turn dark and Prompto’s eyes are that unnatural red. It’s a conversation he should have pressed and then sent back to Ignis, his father, _someone_.

Prompto’s voice is hollow. “I’ve been trying. To resist it. But I...they’re trying to make me strong but it _hurts_.”

“Prom…”

The Kingsglaive haven’t been able to find anything pointing to Prompto’s existence. Even after all these years of searching and probing. He’d been so sure that they would find something, that he could _help_ but…

“I’m glad you showed me how to use a sword. Your dad is right. Sometimes you need to do something yourself.” Prompto doesn’t look at him, doesn’t quite even see the room, as he says in a near whisper that freezes Noctis to the core. “I hate him.”

“ _Prom_ ,” Noctis says, reaching for him. “What are you going to do?”

The look Prompto gives in return, his violet blue eyes clear and softening in a way that Noctis knew because it happens to him upon every return to the dream world. It’s open, unguarded, and it _spears_ Noctis. “Did I ever tell you I love you?”

* * *

 

It’s a month after Prompto’s confession. A _great_ month after. Ignis has pointedly stopped him at least twice and commented on the bounce in the prince’s step but Noctis said nothing.

He’s learned, after ten years, not to speak about Prompto, not if he wants whispers trailing him through the Citadel, so he only smiles and shakes his head. He tells himself he likes the confused stares, because he’s got a secret and Prompto is the only other person who knows. It’s a good feeling, makes his lonely world slightly less lonely.

It’s inevitable, then, that things crack over time.

The first comes after Noctis settles against his favorite tree in a smaller courtyard in the Citadel. It’s late afternoon; the autumn sun is holding out just long enough that the chill is more comfortable rather than biting, though it’s due to turn any day now. Still, it’s enough warmth to lull Noctis into an easy and relaxed nap.

The crack in the great thing he and Prompto built, the dream world, their _escape_ from the loneliness of their homes, is that it’s dark. Dark, black midnight. Starless, moonless. A world that, while usually empty and silent while they pull strength from each other, practically _rings_ from how utterly frozen it seems in the darkness.

And in the darkness--Prompto is missing.

Noctis runs up the steps of the Citadel, normally his home, but the darkness feels like an ominous cloud around it. Still, he bursts through the lobby, to the elevator, to his set of rooms but...Prompto isn’t there.

There’s a flash of color in his peripheral, the only flash of color in the monochrome night of the dream world, and Noctis whips around. Finds Carbuncle. “Where is he?”

The creature has made himself scarce in the last few years, most likely to give the two princes some privacy, but clearly, it’s watched over both of them in its own way. Noctis’s cell phone chirps in his pocket.

“You have to help him.”

The message is cryptic, a stab into Noctis’s frayed nerves, and it wakes him almost immediately.

Noctis is gasping against his tree. The autumn sun has lost its warmth and he shivers as he blinks, grasps at his thundering heart. His phone is in his other hand, right where he left it, Carbuncle’s message still bright on the screen.

 _Help him_.

Noctis warps to his feet, staggering through the colonnade, his boots barely gripping the polished marble as he hurtles through corridors and doorways. Searching, searching for--

“... _crazy_ , an entire research facility in the Niflheim outlands, _gone_.”

Noctis slides to a stop. His breath is too loud in his ears but the man speaking a few feet away, a Kingsglaive with red hair…

“Don’t even know why,” he continues from his previous statement, oblivious to the frantic prince behind him. “Reports say it blew up from the inside. Homemade bombs or something.”

It’s the second crack in the thing he and Prompto have built together. Darkness...and a research facility gone from an explosion. Carbuncle’s message.

And a long ago memory, tucked away from when thoughts of explosions were too painful to remember: Prompto’s firework experiment. Homemade bombs.

 _Help him_.

Noctis doesn’t notice when he starts running again, only that he shoves past the two Kingsglaive, straight to the elevator in the center of the Citadel, the one that will lead him straight up--to his father’s council chamber.

By some mercy, the council is empty save for King Regis and Clarus, the other council members having retired for the evening. Both men start in their respective places at the glossy black table as Noctis bursts through the doors. Noctis is breathless, his face pale and his brow furrowed; King and Shield stand, immediately alert.

“Prompto is in trouble,” Noctis says before his father can say anything.

Clarus gives King Regis a sharp look, while the king himself stares long and hard at Noctis. Perhaps only a few minutes pass but it’s long enough that Noctis feels an impatient _pull_ , the need to do _something_. He balls his fists, the edges of his phone digging painfully into his right palm.

Clarus takes a step forward, his eyes unreadable as he stares at Noctis for a moment, then swings around to Regis. “Majesty, perhaps it’s time you stopped indulging this--”

“It’s not a dream,” Noctis inserts. He feels the weight of his phone and gives a sharp intake of breath. If Carbuncle’s message came through...Noctis’s fingers work fast, swiping and tapping into the gallery on his phone and--there. The relief is a stone in his core and his flips the phone around to his father. “There. Proof.”

It’s the selfie of Prompto and Noctis on his birthday two months ago, Noctis bemused and Prompto beaming, and clearly in Noctis’s room--or, the dream world version of it.

Regis’s eyes widen and he hurries over, pushing his bad leg to move quicker, until he’s inches from Noctis’s outstretched hand and the phone’s bright screen. It illuminates the king’s face, whose eyes alternate between the phone screen and Noctis’s determined ones.

Clarus appears over the king’s shoulder, his mouth popped open in disbelief and his eyes settling on the back of Regis’s head.

Proof, at last. Undeniable proof. Unless Clarus is aware of _another_ blonde boy who befriended Prince Noctis _and_ cleared the Citadel’s background checks.

Noctis still hasn’t gotten control of his breathing when Regis finally settles his gaze on him, put a gentle hand on his arm and squeezes it, reassuring. “Son. We have to tread carefully--”

“I know where he’s going,” Noctis cut in again. Regis’s mouth snaps closed. “At least...I think. I need to stop him. I need to go.”

“Out of the question,” Clarus booms, but Regis holds up a hand and immediately he silences himself.

“Dad…”

It’s a father who looks at Noctis, who furrows his brow to share his Shield’s sentiment and ban his son from leaving the safety of the Citadel...but it’s a Prince who stares back, his mouth set in a thin line as he senses his father’s concern--and steps back, out of the comforting grasp on his arm.

Noctis thinks of Prompto when he asked about his father, the cold hatred that snapped over his eyes. Yeah. He knows where he’s going.

Noctis pockets his phone as understanding flashes across Regis and he attempts a smile. “Love you, Dad.”

* * *

 

Honestly, Noctis is disappointed it takes Gladio and Ignis until he’s revved up the Regalia to catch up with him.

“What took you so long,” Noctis says as they clamber in wordlessly, their own supplies dumped neatly into the trunk. “Thought you were elite fighters.”

“Specs needed to pack the pharmacy,” Gladio says gruffly, “incase you get yourself killed.”

“And shelter for an injured fool is quite necessary,” Ignis pushes up his glasses.

Noctis snorts but guides the Regalia out of the Citadel garage. They leave the Citadel and then Insomnia with little fuss, only the curious stares of the guards at the various gates and checkpoints who recognize the king’s car.

They’re an hour outside of the city before Ignis asks, “may we see it?”

Noctis doesn’t need clarification; he pulls gestures to his phone, propped up in a cup holder, and lets Ignis find the picture for himself. When the two see it, Noctis feels their stares burn into him as he drives on.

* * *

 

In any other situation, Noctis would love a trip across Eos. A grand, sweeping road trip, his friends at his side. Racing chocobos, learning how to fix the Regalia in the Leide Desert garage, fishing at the countless lakes and rivers dotting the land. Noctis tries to picture it; Ignis at the fire, cooking up a dinner of fish; Gladio doing his exercises; Prompto…

Every camp, every motel and market that the three stop at, Noctis tries to fit Prompto in with them. Perhaps he’d twist around in his seat, because he’d be sitting up front with Ignis, and talk to Noctis about whatever cool sight they just passed. Perhaps he’d sit with Noctis while he fished, like they always just sat and enjoyed each other’s company.

It’s a long trek across the world, and the daydreams help while his dream world remains dark and especially when they finally slip into Niflheim. The ache that Noctis feels with Prompto feels...sick.

It worsens when they reach Gralea; two weeks on the road, with no contact from Prompto, only the blind trust Gladio and Ignis have in Regis, Noctis and a picture. Noctis is jumpy and at times guilty for pulling the other two away from their home.

But...but then they reach Gralea and everything is shoved to the side as the city burns bright with flames. Ignis pulls over in some outskirt and the three stare; gunfire rings out, and metal crashes against metal as more explosives rocket into the sky.

Noctis is out of the car before the other two can stop him; he’s only faintly aware of them yelling some warning, that it’s too dangerous for them--for him--to enter but he doesn’t care. He warps away, as far as he can see into the city proper. The world twists away, pulling at his core, and he lands with a thud in an intersection beside two upturned cars.

There’s a flash of blue beside him, and then it’s gone as quick as it came. Kingsglaive. Noctis heaves out a breath that could be a thank you to his father for sending them into whatever--this was. More gunfire, along with screams. Impossibly tall soldiers with metal faces staggered passed, only to be cut down by more Kingsglaive. Other soldiers, _not_ his father’s aim, their guns at them as well.

Gladio always did say it would be convenient for civil war to break out in the Empire…

Civil war--he doesn’t give a damn about that, never has. But--Prompto.

Noctis doesn’t know how he knows where to go, has learned not to question the ache and pull anymore, but he follows it anyway like he always has. Straight to Prompto. Straight to the front steps of the palace, large and looming in the city center.

Hellfire rains down on the city, aided by his father’s forces and Niflheim’s own and yet the palace is...quiet. Noctis can hear his heart roaring in his ears, his boots as his feet guided him up the wide stairs of the grand entrance. It’s cold. Rather than the polished marble of the Citadel, this palace is metal, gray and dull.

The knowledge that this Prompto’s world feels wrong; it’s too dark, no warmth. Noctis can’t picture Prompto’s laugh ringing out in these halls, not even the blonde tuft of his hair.

It’s wrong even as Noctis follows that aching pull, pushes a wide set of doors open, and finds Prompto in the center of a cavernous room.

Noctis freezes. His blood, his heart, everything _freezes_ at the sight that greets him. Of Prompto standing over an elderly man in white robes, a long scrap of metal in his hand and pointed at him. The Emperor.

Prompto is white, his eyes red--not just in color, but the skin around them. Puffy and filled with unshed tears as he stares down at the Emperor--at his father. The scrap of metal is shaking in his hand, the tip unsteadily moving down the long column of Iedolas’s throat.

“Prompto.” Noctis takes a step forward. The world is unsteady, like he might be shaking too.

“He’s not my father,” Prompto says quietly, more at the emperor at his feet. “I know now.”

Emperor Iedolas, improvised sword at his throat, still has the gall to sneer at Prompto. “I took you from that lab, _I_ raised and trained you. You may not be of my seed but you’re _my creation_.”

The words are ugly; they twist at Prompto, who cries out a denial, and Noctis, whose feet are moving again, boots on metal, until he’s next to Prompto. Reaching out a trembling hand and cupping his pale and cold cheek. Prompto blinks a few times, shakes his head, but he leans into the touch, a few sobs bubbling from his mouth.

“Not a creation,” Noctis says, turning Prompto to him. His hands pull at Prompto’s; they both tremble but somehow it’s steadying, to be holding Prompto. “You’re real. A real _person_.”

Prompto’s eyes flash, his violet seeping back in where the red cloud them. A few tears slip from them and Noctis brushes them away with a thumb. A scrap metal in his hands lowers. Clatters to the floor as Prompto turns fully to Noctis, pulls him toward him with desperate hands. Noctis folds himself into Prompto, brings him into his arms, the ache fluttering once again.

Civil war has broken out beyond this palace, the emperor lies in a heap, and yet Prompto is all Noctis sees, real and before him at last. He manages a smile. “Have I ever thanked you for showing up in my dreams?”

Prompto opens his mouth, his lips not quite tugging into a smile, when two things happen that shatter the cracks in Noctis’s world.

Prompto makes a strangled sound, his brows and mouth both twisting in pain, and then he’s tumbling out of Noctis’s arms and to the floor, clutching his side. A _bang_ fills the emptiness of the hall a second after that and Emperor Iedolas makes the same strange gurgled sound as Prompto.

And blood. So much of it. It seeps onto the floor from both Prompto, who moans and presses a hand at his side and from the emperor--who lies still and silent beside them.

Noctis curses and he follows Prompto to the floor. His eyes don’t know where to look--at the scrap metal, now in Iedolas’s limp hand and tipped with red, or at Prompto, whose hands are both shining with red, or at Gladio and Ignis, who burst into the room, the latter with a flash of blue at his hand.

Noctis is vaguely aware of Gladio cursing as well, muttering something about being  _real_ while Ignis gives them stern commands to apply pressure and hold on, he’s got an elixir. Gladio radios for help and Noctis...Noctis presses against where Prompto’s hands are and tries so hard to look brave.

The ache is back. It’s not fluttering. It thuds at his chest, freezes and unfreezes his own blood as he stares at Prompto. His eyes burn and his throat is impossibly tight but still he tells Prompto to hold on, _hold on_.

Prompto opens his mouth and Noctis, absurdly, thinks of all the video games and movies he’s gone through in the dream world with Prompto. How in all of them, there’s always a declaration of love before...Noctis bites back a sob and presses harder, tries to feel relieved when Ignis’s elixir washes over Prompto with a fleeting flash.

He doesn’t want to hear it, to hear Prompto giving up and saying goodbye, so he presses his own lips against Prompto’s. It’s soft as usual, not nearly as warm as it should be, and it tastes awfully of blood, but it’s still Prompto and Noctis will take what he can get.

When he pulls away, Prompto manages a slight smile. “Isn’t your dad supposed to save me?”

Noctis is stunned into silence and he forgets for a second that he should be pressing down but Prompto is smiling. Ignis and Gladio are watching fascination, not panic. There’s color in his cheeks, violet in his eyes and Noctis just knows--he’s going to be fine. So he snorts. Flicks Prompto’s nose. “Shut up.”

* * *

 

The thing about imaginary friends is that they’re just that, imaginary. They’re supposed to fade over time. They’re not supposed to appear in your dreams.

Falling in love with them isn’t supposed to happen.

Neither is rescuing them from an evil empire, and bringing them back to live in your magic kingdom.

Because they’re not supposed to be real.

Noctis knows, Prompto as well, that a day will come where they’ll have to face the events of what happened. The world will want answers for the bloodshed that occured, for the dead emperor. Noctis knows, as he sits beside Prompto in his hospital bed, that a time might come when the empty imperial throne will demand an occupant. 

But for now...Noctis squeezes Prompto’s hand, brushes the blonde strands from his forehead. That’s all another story.

**Author's Note:**

> *throws confetti* It's done~ I think this might have been the hardest thing I've written but dang was it interesting to dig into. I suuuper hope you enjoyed reading it ^^


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